


I’ll Bleed Out For You

by wintercaps



Series: Born To Be Yours [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, Crying, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hair-pulling, Knifeplay, M/M, face-slapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 08:43:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16657864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercaps/pseuds/wintercaps
Summary: Steve has never wanted anything the way he wants Bucky to keep cutting him and being sweet on him while he does so.





	I’ll Bleed Out For You

**Author's Note:**

> super unedited whoop ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Steve likes to think himself a pretty pleasant person. Most days, he goes out of his way to talk to the doorman of the building. He’s an older gentleman, hair greying around the temples, laugh lines around his eyes that had immediately made Steve feel comfortable talking with him.

They’d once spent near an hour talking, by the entrance to the building, about their life experiences. Steve had learnt that Jorge’s eldest son was a lawyer, his only daughter studying to become a vet. He’d learnt that Jorge was allergic to shellfish, and strawberries, and that he’d once tried to eat an entire pack of strawberries on a childhood dare and hadn’t touched one since. Steve didn’t talk much about himself; Jorge knew that he was talking to Captain America, but Steve had made it clear that he would rather be just Steve Rogers, but sometimes it was easier for him to fall into that space where he didn’t feel much like a person than it was for him to be Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers liked things and disliked things and had opinions and sometimes all of that being a person was too tiring for him to handle.

Jorge clearly saw the exhaustion on Steve’s face, and merely nodded his greeting with a smile, rather than stopping him for a conversation. Steve was grateful; he didn’t think he would be able to keep a conversation going.

Steve had been gone for most of the day, on Important Captain America Business™️ (as Sam had called it in his text). Thankfully, it had turned out to be more shaking-hands-and-kissing-babies than taking down HYDRA cells. Over the months, missions against HYDRA had dwindled to the point that Steve was almost nearly beginning to have hope that they’d finally gotten rid of them.

Still, Steve found himself yawning on the ride up to his — _their_ — floor. Sometimes, meeting politicians and talking morals tired him out more than fighting HYDRA ever had. They all had _opinions_ and most of them were, thankfully, ones that aligned with his own. It was always a challenge to bite his tongue and grind his teeth and stop himself from shouting curses at those whose morals were so vastly different from his own that he wanted to scream _vaccinate your fucking kids_ at them, like he had upon meeting the first woman who’d _bragged_ about how she refused to vaccinate her children for one fucked up reason or another.

 _Do you know how many things I almost died of as a kid, Deborah?_ He’d shouted in the middle of the meeting, Pepper looking absolutely agonised off to the sides.

It had taken another six months of apologising before Pepper allowed him to do any form of public appearances. Mostly, he enjoyed those meetings. They were tiring, but he got to meet new people and Steve was always eager to learn about their own personal stories. He was less of a fan of the way everyone insisted on calling him Cap and looked confused when he would talk about himself as though he was an actual person, rather than the propaganda symbol he’d been turned into.

At the end of the day, he was always left wanting nothing more than to go home to Bucky at their apartment in Soho. They’d both ended up with a disgusting amount of backpay from their time serving, and had thrown it towards the condo. After almost two years, it had well and truly become home for them.

“Hey, Buck.” He calls into their floor as he steps out of the elevator. The doors slide smoothly shut behind him.

“Hey, Stevie!” Bucky’s voice comes from somewhere off to the left; probably the kitchen or the living room. “How’d it go?” Steve answering groan has Bucky laughing delightedly. “That bad, huh?”

“It wasn’t _that_ bad. Just, y’know. Tiring.” Steve concedes, heading the opposite way down the hall towards their room. He glances longingly at their bed; it had cost a truly atrocious amount of money, but god was it worth the price. It was a king double, with thick white sideboards and headboard, and the mattress itself felt like sinking into a cloud, but _softer._ He turns his back on the bed and strips out of the suit he’d spent the day wearing.

The suit itself wasn’t bad, made of a wonderful material by some no doubt expensive designer, but Steve had spent more than long enough anxiously tugging at his tie under Pepper’s warning glances. Finally being able to loosen the tie feels like a physical relief. He neatly hangs the three piece suit in their cupboard, knowing full well that Bucky would give him the Eyebrows Of Disappointment if he saw Steve not taking care of the suit that Bucky himself had chosen for that very day.

He changes into a simple white shirt and grey sweats, exchanging his plain white socks for a pair of soft blue ones in their top drawer. Wearing comfortable socks always makes him feel extra at home.

Steve stifles a yawn as he heads back towards where he’d heard Bucky. He finds him in the kitchen, humming away at the stove.

“Smells good.” Steve compliments, reaching out to briefly touch Bucky’s side as he walks past, heading for the espresso machine. “Indian?”

“Indian. Butter chicken, specifically.” Bucky confirms.

He turns to Steve with a smile that makes his insides melt. And then his eyes drop to the thing in Bucky’s right hand, and his insides do a lot more than melt. They flip and wobble and turn into a pile of absolute jello.

It’s a butterfly knife, small enough to easily fit into Bucky’s hand. The handles are a matte black and the blade impossibly shiny, from where Bucky keeps it in top shape. Every so often, the edge of the blade catches the light as Bucky flicks his wrist and sends the knife twirling around his hand, and all Steve can think about is how wonderfully _sharp_ the blade must be.

It’s only logical, really. Bucky keeps all of his weapons in pristine condition, regularly cleaning and sheathing and spending hours sharpening them, so of course the blade would be sharp. Sharp enough to slit jugular veins and carve open chest cavities and split the flesh down Steve’s chest, painting his skin sun-kissed golden with streaks of vermillion and all it would take is a flick of his wrist to turn Steve into his own personal masterpiece.

It isn’t as though Steve’s never seen Bucky with a knife before. A set of drawers in the corner of their room is entirely dedicated to his various weapons, from daggers to switchblades to garottes to handguns. Something about the contrast of Bucky, so soft and domestic at the stove, flicking around a blade that he’s almost certainly used to kill people before, sends all sorts of mixed signals to Steve’s body.

Steve notes, vaguely horrified, that he’s well on his way to hard. Judging by Bucky’s raised eyebrow, he notices as well. The kitchen is silent, other than the sound of the espresso machine working its magic.

“Huh.” Bucky says.

“Shut up.” Steve blurts, spinning around to face the other wall. “Not a word, Barnes.”

“Awwwwww.” Bucky is clearly pouting. “But Stevie—“

“No _but Stevie_. No anything. Shut your goddamn mouth.” Steve hisses. His cheeks have been getting progressively warmer since he first saw Bucky with that fucking knife and now his face feels hotter than a thousand suns. Steve _knows_ that he’s an easy blusher, and thinking of how red his face must be just serves to make him flush more. Bucky always goes soft and doe-eyed when he sees Steve blush in bed. He has fond memories of Bucky whispering “you pink up so pretty, doll” and “full-body blusher, aren’t you, sweetheart?” and _god_ now is _not_ the time to be thinking of Bucky sweet talking him in bed.

He grabs his coffee mug, scowling, heading back for their room. He changes his mind, he doesn’t want to spend time with Bucky, he’s going to curl up on their stupid giant bed and read for a while and then he’s going to sleep and Bucky and his stupid knife can both go fuck themselves.

Steve settles into bed, opening Spotify on his StarkPhone. He turns it to full volume, and then connects it to the surround sound system throughout the floor. He vaguely hears Bucky laugh under the blaring music.

He manages to get another twelve pages into _The_ _Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy_ before Bucky steps into their room. He thankfully doesn’t have the butterfly knife with him this time. Steve eyes him warily for a moment, before Bucky tilts his head back towards the kitchen and mouths “dinner”. And then he steps back out, heading for the dining room.

Steve sighs. He really had been planning on ignoring Bucky’s offer of food in favor of pouting and sleeping off his shame. He places the book on his bedside table and turns the music off as he goes.

Dinner is already served up on the dining room table, plates stacked high with rice and butter chicken with separate plates dedicated entirely to three different types of naan bread. Steve’s stomach decides to make its presence known, rumbling pleasantly at the smell.

“It smells real good, Buck.” Steve says, settling into the chair across from where Bucky is already digging into his meal.

Bucky nods, licking sauce off the corner of his mouth. “Tastes real good, too.”

They talk about their days, and for a while, Steve thinks that the embarrassing moment with the knife has been forgotten.

☆

They finish eating around the same time. As their house rules dictate, Bucky cooked, so Steve insists on tidying, shooing Bucky off to their bedroom with a wave of his hands that has Bucky laughing.

He rinses and stacks the plates in the dishwasher, humming to himself quietly as he wipes over the benches and table. Steve heads down the hall towards their room, apartment silent other than the sound of the dishwasher starting up.

Bucky is settled into their bed when Steve makes his way into their room, still fully dressed in his grey shirt and red flannel pants. He takes one look at the knife in Bucky’s hand and freezes at the foot of their bed.

“Y’know,” Bucky says, almost conversationally as he flicks the blade. “I’m not sure what gets you more hot. The knife itself, or the fact that I’m real good at usin’ it. See, if you’ve got a thing for how well I use the knife, then all I have to do it flick it around a bit. But if you’ve got a thing for the knife, well. That makes it a bit more interesting, don’t you think?”

Bucky smiles at him sweetly the whole time, finally flicking the knife full rotation so that he clutches the handles and the blade glints in the light.

“Uh.” Is about all Steve is capable of saying.

“What does it for you, Stevie? Knowin’ that I know exactly how to cut you within an inch of your life if I wanted? Or is it thinkin’ about the blade itself? I could cut your chest up real pretty, if you wanted. Slice up your sweet thighs. Maybe carve my name into your skin."

“Oh.” Steve whispers. Bucky’s smile turns wicked, gaze sharp.

“Is that it, baby? You want me to cut you and make you bleed?”

Steve nods dazedly. His mind feels like it’s full of cotton, all he can think about is how sweet the cold edge of the knife would feel pressing into his flesh.

“What a sweet boy.” Bucky purrs, holding out a hand for Steve to take, crawling up the bed towards Bucky. “You want me to really make it hurt? Split the skin and leave you covered in your own blood?”

“Please.” Steve’s voice wavers as he presses his face into Bucky’s shoulder. The thought of it is so good, _so good_ , it’s all he wants, it’s all he’s ever wanted, he just wants Bucky to cut him up and he wants to be _good_ for him while he does.

“Oh, sweetheart. You dropped so fast.” Bucky sounds awed, rubbing his left hand down Steve’s back in a comforting motion. “You’re so sweet for me. I can’t wait to cut you up.”

Steve melts into the embrace. He feels like he’s floating but he doesn’t mind; he knows that Bucky will take care of him. Bucky always takes such good care of him.

“Can you give me your color, baby?” Bucky places the knife on the bed beside them, lifting his other hand to press against the back of Steve’s neck, a warm and comforting weight that grounds him.

“Mmmm…...green.” Steve thinks he whispers. His brain is officially gone, drifted off somewhere in the cosmos, but he knows that he’s green for this. He wants whatever Bucky will give him.

Steve can hear the smile in Bucky’s voice as he says, “Thank you for telling me that. You know what to say if you want to stop?”

“I say red, or Brooklyn. Or if I can’t speak I punch you.” He dutifully recites.

“And if it starts to get uncomfortable but you aren’t at the point of wanting to stop?”

“Yellow or I tap you three times.”

“Oh, what a good boy. I’m so proud of you for remembering that.” Bucky’s voice is so sweet, Steve’s chest feels ready to burst with it.

“Thank you.” He presses his forehead into the crook of Bucky’s neck, cheeks warm. He vaguely registers Bucky’s right hand moving from its place on the back of his neck, and then the cold edge of a blade against the cut of his jaw a moment later.

“ _Oh._ ” He gasps, hips rocking forward unconsciously at the pressure. He’d been too distracted before to notice, but now it’s more than clear that he’s on his way to hard.

“Stay still.” Bucky’s voice is as sharp as the knife he wields, and Steve’s hips shudder to a stop. “This isn’t for you, this is for me. You’re just here to be quiet and let me cut you as much as I want.”

A soft sound falls from Steve’s lips unbidden. The thought of Bucky _wanting_ to cut Steve, careless of Steve’s own pleasure, is enough to have him suppressing a shiver. He’s nothing more than the canvas Bucky decided to paint with ropes of scarlet. God, he’s so lucky.

“I said, be _quiet_ ”

Steve bites his lip hard enough that it aches to stop the gasp that rises when Bucky digs the tip of the blade under his jaw. He wants to turn his head and present more flesh for Bucky to cut, but his sir told him to stay still and he wants so badly to be good for him. The knife trails down the length of his neck, just hard enough for him to feel it but not quite hard enough to split skin.

He wants to squirm and press into the blade and feel the blood dripping down his body.

Suddenly, Bucky’s left hand is in his hair, pulling his head back. Steve chokes out a gasp at the sting of pain in his scalp and responding throb in his cock. Bucky guides him back by his hair till he’s straddling his lap, resting up on his knees to keep from putting any weight on his sir.

Bucky gives a final tug on Steve’s hair before releasing his punishing grip, instead sliding his hand down his body to correct his posture, till his back is straight and shoulders set. Bucky makes a thoughtful sound, before slicing through his shirt. He does the same to his sweats, clean cuts at specific points in the fabric, and Steve finds himself naked a moment later aside from his socks, which Bucky simply tugs off with a soft little smile.

“Arms begins your back.” Bucky nods when Steve smoothly follows his order, clutching at his left wrist with his right hand. Bucky taps at his arm, warning, “I’m not going to tie you up, but I want you to be good and keep your hands right where they are. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Steve bobs his head in agreement. His eyes are heavy, and he peers at Bucky through dark lashes. His sir is so pretty, how did Steve ever get so lucky? He’d tied his hair up earlier in the night but it had started to come undone, strands of dark hair spilling around his pretty face, framing soft lips and a strong nose and beautiful grey eyes. Bucky had shaved that morning, and a part of Steve mourns the loss of that beautiful facial hair. There’s nothing better than the feeling of Bucky’s beard irritating his skin and leaving marks for him to brush his fingers over later on.

Except, maybe, the feeling of Bucky making the knife’s presence known again. He’d switched it to his left hand, and Steve flinches at the sudden touch of cold at his rib cage. He expects another fleeting brush of steel, but is instead treated to the feeling of skin splitting under the drag of the blade. His jaw drops at the sensation.

A smirk teases the edges of Bucky’s lips. “Aw, look at that, Stevie. Blood’s already welling up. I guess you bleed real pretty, too.”

Steve feels another line of pain under the first cut, and then another on the cut of his hipbone, followed by a quick nick on the dip of his collarbone.

“Oh god.” He wheezes, tears stinging his eyes as he squeezes them shut. It doesn’t hurt that bad, but he still _feels_ it. He feels his skin splitting and the droplets of blood rising to the wound and spilling over, streaking down.

Steve feels the bolt of pain against his jaw a second later, the open palm of Bucky’s hand sending his head snapping to the side. Bucky’s voice is colder than the Arctic waters Steve had frozen in. “I said _be quiet_. Next time you make a sound, it’ll be my other hand.”

The tears spill over, a sob catching in his throat. Steve digs his nails into his own flesh to stop his hips from rocking forward, knowing that Bucky won’t hesitate to hit him with his left hand if he misbehaves. They’d long since set up rules (no backhand hits, Bucky would only hit Steve with his left hand a max of three times during each scene, only ever on the jaw to prevent serious injury) and Steve trusts Bucky to stick to them. If Bucky thinks Steve needs to be smacked around with his metal hand, Steve will take it without protest.

Bucky let Steve have the quiet sob, voice turning mockingly sweet. “There we go. Not so hard to stay quiet, is it? Shut your mouth, don’t move, and just let me have this.”

The next cut has Steve grinding his teeth against a shout. It presses in, carving its way down his chest, collarbone to navel. The spill of blood is warm over his skin and Steve loves it, he loves knowing that Bucky is causing it.

Bucky hums to himself as he slices open the skin of Steve’s pecs, covers his thighs in cuts, trails the tip of the blade up his spine and laughs at the shiver it gets him.

Somewhere along the way, he’d dragged the knife back up to Steve’s jaw. He presses his lips to Steve’s cheek, whispering, “I could kill you right now, sweetheart. I can _feel_ your pulse, you’re _terrified,_ it would only take a moment for me to cut your jugular. Then you’d really be covered in blood. Maybe I’d keep cutting you even after you’d died, turn your corpse into a real work of art.”

Steve trembles at his words, but it isn’t exactly pleasant this time.

“And you’d let me do it, wouldn’t you? Just sit there and take it while I carved you up. You’re real stupid, aren’t you, Stevie? Too dull to know when enough is enough. Bet you’d even ask me to keep going.”

“Yellow.” Steve suddenly gasps out, tears clumping his eyelashes together and making it hard to see. “I — yellow.”

Bucky immediately backs off, blade discarded, hands warm and comforting as they run over his sides. “What’s wrong, Stevie?”

“I don’t…….please don’t be mean to me.” Steve swallows back the fresh wave of tears. “I need you to be nice right now. I’m sorry.”

“Shhhh, it’s okay, sweetheart, thank you for telling me. You’re doing so well for me, trying to hard to stay quiet and still, I’m so proud of you, love you so much, sweet boy.” Bucky keeps his voice soft and warm, hands petting over his sides. Steve finds himself swaying forward and Bucky lets him, making a soothing noise. Steve presses his face into the comforting space of Bucky’s shoulder.

There were times where Steve craved Bucky’s cruel comments. His mocking words and taunts would have Steve shivering and moaning and gasping for more. But something about the combination of Bucky cutting him and having harsh words thrown his way makes him want to curl up and hide away.

Steve isn’t sure how long they stay like that, Bucky softly rocking them and murmuring encouragements, but the blood on his skin has started to dry and the wounds have already begun to knit themselves back together.

“You want me to clean you up?”

Steve makes a sound of protest, pressing further into Bucky’s warmth, as though he could hide from having to leave the scene.

“We can keep going, baby,” Bucky runs a hand through Steve’s hair comfortingly. “I just want to clean up the blood so I can see what we’re working with, okay? We don’t have to stop if you don’t want to, we can keep going.”

The panic overwhelming Steve dissipates at Bucky’s words. He nods, making a pleased sound. He’s never wanted anything the way he wants Bucky to keep cutting him and be sweet on him while he does so.

Bucky lifts him easily, as though he weighs no more than a feather, and sets him down flat on the bed. Steve grins at his sir’s show of strength. Bucky could do some real damage to Steve if he wanted to, but they both know that he would never hurt him beyond the type of pain that Steve craves.

Steve makes a contented noise when Bucky wanders back out from their en suite with their first aid kit. He settles onto the bed beside Steve, rummaging around, before pulling out a pack of alcohol wipes. He works quickly, cleaning up the dried blood while avoiding the cuts themselves. Steve lets his mind drift as Bucky works through the steps of cleaning and disinfecting the wounds.

During the scene, Steve had found himself constantly dipping into subspace, the cut of the blade simultaneously sending him further down while keeping him grounded. It was a strange experience, feeling as though he was floating while still fully conscious of his surroundings.

“Oh, sweetheart.” The soft awe in Bucky’s voice serves as enough to send him sinking back into subspace, where the only thing that matters is how well Bucky takes care of him. “Look so pretty, all cut up for me. God, I wish you could scar, I’d put my name all over you.”

“Please. Sir, _please._ ” Steve’s voice is small enough that he’d be embarrassed by it any other time. As is, all that he can focus on is the soft smile curving Bucky’s lips.

“You want me to cut my name into your pretty chest, sweet boy?” Bucky coos, packing away the first aid kit and sliding it under the bed for the time being.

Steve nods. He wants his sir’s name on every damn inch of his skin. He wants to belong entirely to Bucky. He _does_ belong to Bucky, undeniably so; of course he should have his sir’s name on him.

A soft sound escapes Steve, not quite a word, but Bucky understands exactly what he means.

“Okay, doll, I’ll put my name on you.”

Steve is distantly aware that he’d closed his eyes, the world suddenly dark around him. Everything had fallen away, leaving only Bucky. Bucky, sitting by Steve’s side. Bucky, whispering sweet words that only serve to make Steve’s head feel dizzier. Bucky, lifting the blade to carve a _B_ into the skin of Steve’s right pec.

Steve feels every movement of the knife, slicing through flesh smoothly, from the _B_ to the _y._ Thick droplets of blood spill from the wounds, sliding wet and warm down his torso. He distantly thinks _I’m yours_ at his sir, _I’m yours I’m yours I’m yours_ on a constant loop, the sentiment solidified by the stinging pain of his name on Steve’s chest, an ache that throbs with the racing beat of his heart. He’s Bucky’s, every part of him belongs to Bucky, he would do anything for his sir, he would give his life for him.

“Color, sweetheart?” Bucky’s voice, so low and sweet, sends a shiver over Steve’s skin. He murmurs something that sounds like _green_ , falling headfirst into the feeling of being cut again.

Bucky slices the skin of his hips, trailing soft kisses next to the cut of his blade. Steve’s thighs tremble with the force of keeping his hips still. Steve feels the sharp bite of Bucky’s grin against his flesh, a whimper forcing itself from his throat at the thought of Bucky nosing closer to where Steve is hard and aching for him. Bucky, of course, moves away.

The next cut is deeper than any of the others, and all thoughts of his cock flee his mind. It slices from one shoulder to the other in a perfectly neat line, and Bucky draws the blade away as Steve arches into the pain with a choked off shout. He barely has time to register the feeling of blood dripping from the cut before he feels the press of the blade against his thighs again, moving in three smooth flicks, blood rushing out from the wounds so close to his femoral artery. He sobs, writhing against the steadying hand Bucky places on his chest.

Bucky moves quickly, dragging his blade all over Steve’s front, till he feels himself covered in blood and he’s distantly aware of how he keeps gasping _more_ and _please_ , as though Bucky isn’t already giving him everything he could ever ask for.

Bucky slots himself between Steve’s thighs, lifting one around his waist, even as Steve hisses at the healing cuts reopening at the sudden movement, fresh blood dripping down his thigh.

“Oh _, fuck._ ” He chokes out when he feels the sharp tip of the knife press into the skin just beside his cock. He squirms, sobbing _no_ and _please more_ , Bucky’s chuckle low and dirty as he trails the blade closer.

“You gonna come from this, sweet boy?” Bucky had long since dropped his taunting edge, leaving him sounding fond and adoring. Steve shudders, giving a jerky nod. “You come whenever you want to, you’ve been so good for me, doll. You’ve earned it, I’m so so proud of you, so good.”

At any other time, Steve would be ashamed of how those words affect him. As is, he’s barely even aware of his own reaction to it. His back arches painfully, his throat feels raw all of a sudden, he feels _so good so good so good_ , he feels a wetness on his stomach that mostly blends in with the wetness of the blood covering him.

Steve loses track of time after that, aware only distantly of Bucky cutting him and asking him for his color at various intervals. The next thing that Steve registers is Bucky’s hands, sweeping down his sides, blade gone.

“You ready to come up, Stevie?” Bucky’s lips brush against Steve’s cheek.

It takes a moment for Steve to gather his thoughts; they keep slipping from his grasp, just out of reach, drifting further the more he tries to hold onto them. Eventually, he gives a clumsy-feeling nod. His head feels both too heavy and too light for him to control.

He keeps his eyes closed, content to stay in the comfortable darkness while his sir takes care of him. Sure enough, he hears the click of the first aid kit, smells the antiseptic, shivers at the cold sting of it seeping into the cuts as Bucky cleans them.

His mind is still stuck on that loop of _I love you I’m yours_ from earlier as Bucky settles into bed beside him. Steve doesn’t know how long they stay like this; the passing of time is more or less nonexistent for him at the moment.

“Thank you.” He finally slurs out, when he rises enough to remembers how words work. When he opens his eyes, he sees the soft glow of the lamp beside the bed lighting up the room. Other than that, it’s entirely dark.

Bucky presses a sweet trail of kisses along Steve’s shoulder, murmuring adoring words that fade together. Steve reaches a clumsy hand for Bucky’s cock when he remembers that he didn’t get off, but Bucky smoothly takes hold of his wrist and tugs his hand away.

Steve makes an upset sound. Bucky made him come, it’s only fair that he returns the favor.

“Don’t worry, doll.” Bucky mumbles, sounding just as tired as Steve feels. “I got off watchin’ you get off. I’m more than satisfied.”

Steve presses his smile into the fabric of Bucky’s shirt. Really, how did he get so lucky?

**Author's Note:**

> stay safe kids


End file.
